


hyacinths and irises and primroses all

by theholychesse



Category: Sex Education (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Canon Compliant, M/M, Oral Sex, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Until it isn't :3c, adam is a big power bottom tho can we agree?, adam went to militery school?? whatever do you mean, nope never saw that in the show nope nope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 06:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17617487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theholychesse/pseuds/theholychesse
Summary: You watch him take your Curly Wurlys, horror and dismay settling deep inside your head. Usually, you'd expect him to grasp it in his big bony hands, make a smug face at you, and scram.But he opens the bag. He looks youdeadin the eyes, presses the Curly Wurly into his mouth, swallows it down like achampand makes a noise which makes you sick to your core and makes you wish you  had your phone out just for pure blackmail purposes.(If the noise also went straight for your dick like it had a vengeance—Well, no one aside from your unfortunate arse will know that, now will they?)





	hyacinths and irises and primroses all

**Author's Note:**

> hey so i just binge watched sex education, i have school in 3 hours, and made this purely to have filthy filthy porn between these two

He leaves, jeans slung low on his hips. You stare off into the distance, hands aimlessly fumbling with the zipper of your bag—Here you are, thought free and  _better_ now that you're in sixth form, and yet, here you are again, having your lunch nicked by the same homophobic git who's been doing it since Year 9.   
  
You think:  _Guess I'll have to feed off Otis again like a bloody fucking leech._  
  
You think: _How dare he fucking take my Curly Wurlys?_  
  
You think: _Typical arsehole Adam behavior._  
  
You think: _What the **fuck**  was that?_  
  
You think: _Would that be how he looks like taking cock?_

And you smile at the last thought—Not because it's a _pleasing_ thought, even if it is, not like that but like, like pleasing but not _pleasurable_ , right—But pleasing in the way that you get twin little sparks of sadism and amusement of imagining Adam fucking Groff, down on his bony knees, cheeks hollowed out and eyes a little glazed with throbbing flesh jammed down his throat.   
  
Right, _maaaaybe_ that mental image was a little _too_ descriptive. But! We're not bloody Otis, with his psychoanalysis and self-reflection! Nope, in this household we  _repress_ and we  _repress_ and maybe only bring it to the surface in some mildly suggestive clothes bright enough to blind a blind man.   
  
You saunter off for the day—And if that night, while you fist your ruddy cock and think of anonymous men with calloused hands and puckered lips and fingers splayed all over your left cheek—Well, that's only between you and the God you don't believe in, now isn't it?   
  
And oh, if you thought your suffering ended  _there—_ Well, it didn't! Because the fucking madman, the fucking  _dumbass_ , fucking went and just—  
  
Oh, it _still_ makes you gasp and red at the cheeks and absolutely  _dying_ at the sheer maddening humour of it all—But the fucking arsehole shows his  _dick_ , his  _elephant cock_ in front of the entire fuckin' school and he likely has not enough brain cells inside of him to feel  _regret_ for any of it but fuck it—Holy  _shit._  
  
As one might tell, you're speechless. You are shook down to the smallest fiber in your being, because the  _daring_ of it all, of waltzing into the school daddy dearest heads and showing off the goods, and, fuck, and the  _size_ of it, insanely large and hung between his sturdy legs, framed by strong thighs and  _visible_ abs and oh fuck you couldn't see it but his arse must be—  
  
You only realize what you might have is a  _thing,_ not a big  _thing_ but a  _thing_ nonetheless when—When—When you sit with your legs splayed about the bed, useless blanket shoved to the side, cock in your fist and visions not of skinny boyish twinks but of muscles and  _giant cocks,_ finally given up after trying to go to sleep for  _hours,_ your nighttime hours instead plagued by puckered lips and delicate cheekbones and chiseled muscles and a high little, ' _Aah_ ,' and—  
  
When you lay, spent, cum sticky and dry and uncomfortable on your belly, and you hope to fuck that this  _thing_ will fade away as quickly as similar things have, in the past.   
  
The universe has always loved to bend you over and give you a good smack or five hundred upon your arse—Now whyever did you think this time was going to be different?  
  
It's not—A  _big_ thing, you think. You don't go pining, don't make all sorts of longing lingering glances upon his person when you spot him—He's still a flamin' dickhead who takes your lunch and who likes to get all physical on you, likely is  _all_ sorts of scummy and might become something miserable and aweful like a wife-beating shoplifter in the future but you still—  
  
When you wank, as you do every night, because you are a  _teenage boy for fuck's sake,_ you no longer think of slim brown hands, of cropped short gelled hair under your hot palms, of skinniness and delicate features under you—But of  _sturdy muscle_ , of pale tufts of hair in your hands, of delicate cheekbones and strong shoulders and petite hips and giant cocks and  _fuck—_ You hate it! You fucking hate it! Because it's such a fucking cliche, such a fucking cliche that the fucking bully who beats on the gay kid is closeted himself and how you seem to be the only one who's noticed it, probably hasn't noticed it  _himself_ the fucking wanker, but you see him and you  _understand_ , you see him wilt under daddy's gaze and him to grow more and more ostracized and you hate how you want to  _fuck_ that, and maybe, just maybe, want to hold the bastard by the little chin and look at him and  _understand_ him. 

It's not love. You're not stupid enough to think that you  _like_ the fucker. But you kinda want to fuck him and hold him until he lets years of woe out, and realizes that all of this posturing and bullying and fucking pretty dame after pretty dame is all because he's a little fucked in the head because—Because you're stupid and  _kind_ like that, you suppose.   
  
But then Otis leaves you,  _breaks you—_ After you stumble to his mum's house with your face fucked and your eyes itchy and heart in little crumpled dusty pieces and Otis fucking  _fucks you over_ and you slip on that droll dull yellow jumper and you feel  
  
Empty, and hollowed out. Ugly and stinking and unloved. You put your cock in your hands, felt it jump at the attention, but nothing comes to your mind except your own damn self-pity. If Otis were here, you would laugh and say you understand him, now. But you want him dead, want him buried and  _gone_ , so only you can know this shame and this mercy of yours. 

But then your bravery comes roaring back after you see a man so  _like_ you that it feels like looking in a mirror, like peering into the looking glass and seeing Eric Fucking Effiong ten years in the future, confident and fabulous and incredibly gay and _happy_ , and you think  _fuck this, fuck everyone_ as you slip on the dress, pepper the makeup on your face, slink into a ballroom where you are  _nearly_ enemy number one, and feel the hefty weight of stares and whispers upon you.   
  
Ya', you're an attention seeker. What about it? What kind of creature on this planet _isn't?_ Even Otis—Projecting virginal goodness with his big wet eyes, looks at everyone and pleads  _look at me, be merciful to me, see me as someone small and indistinct._ Fucking git. Fucking wanker.   
  
But at the end of the day, he's _your_ fucking git and your wanker. You always lead; Always. And so you lead him and press him against you and you know some idiots are going to say you're fucking but he is your  _friend,_ he is your friend and your support and your pillar and you press into him and smile and laugh and feel a heavy stare in particular on you and you do not  _fucking_ care.   
  
You don't wank that night, not because of repression or whatever-the-fuck, but because you're dead tired, and are just pure happy and  _exhilarated._  
  
But then you come back, come back glorious and arisen until the fact sets in that you have _detention_ , detention for two weeks _straight_ and you won't be alone for it, oh no no no, you won't because the universe _hates_ you and—  
  
Adam fucking hates you. He hates you, and you know it. And most importantly you know _why_ he does and it's sad, it really is, but it's no fucking excuse and you feel terror throb in your veins—Okay  _maybe_ terror is the wrong word, because for all of his threats and his pushing around he's scarcely ever hurt you, for fuck's sake you think you've gotten more bruises and nicks from tumbling with  _Otis_ and—  
  
He's furious, maybe. Not. Because you fight and you're on the floor and he presses into you and crowds you like you're one of the fucking milk cows that needs be calmed by containment or whatever and he holds you down by your hands and some part of you which uselessly cracks jokes at the worst moments says  _hey that's pretty gay_ and then.   
  
You stare at him. He stares at you. As if by a weak magnetism, your faces are pulled together. His delicate cheekbones are so small and white, his eyes so bright and full of  _something_ , lips full and pink and—  
  
They're on you. And you  _kiss_ , you kiss your stupid homophobic homo bully and he puts a hand to your face and you to his and then there are  _tongues_ involved and then somehow he's teleported down to kissing your chest and your belly and then he's wrestling with your belt and holy  _shit—_  
  
He descends on you like he's been  _gagging_ for this, for a chance to get on his knees and hands and suck cock with all of his power and  _god—_  
  
Your experience is only limited to handjobs and shitty kisses and so while you don't _know_ if this is a good blowjob, you also _know_ it is because the combination of lips, of sucking, of a tongue and hand cupping your balls, is like a multisensory clusterfuck—God, and he _can't_ have done this before, you know it in the way he's drooling a little more than they do in the pornos, accidentally scraping you when he's got trouble fitting you in, but he's going at it like the fucking _champ_ you knew him to be, oral fixation for Curly Wurlys and cigarettes and lunchtime sausages all coming to a head when he's gorging himself on your cock like he's been starved of it for all of his life, treating it like a delicacy from far off lands instead of hard weird flesh with a bit of a tendency to leak.   
  
You come embarrassingly fast. How can you not, when your dick is shoved so far down into Adam's throat that you swear he ought to be turning blue at any moment now? When he's lapping at you, drooling on you, holding you and cupping you and devouring you—Jesus fucking  _Christ_ where is this man's gag reflex—  
  
You come, and you make a shy little moan and your thighs shake and your legs jerk and you feel a line of spit down your chin and when you come to from your brief stay in heaven you come to  _Adam fucking lapping up your come like he's a fucking addict._ He's swallowed the load, just straight up swallowed it, and he's cleaning you up like some kind of damn maniac who needs sperm to survive and holy _fuck_ —  
  
And then he presses lips and teeth against your lower belly, into the lines of flesh that lead to your cock, into your thigh and he grinds himself like a dog against your leg, you feel his  _monstrous_ erection against you, and he grunts and moans and pants into your flesh and you thread your hand through his hair, scratch at his scalp as you watch this little miracle rub himself out against you and then—  
  
" _Aah_." He breathes, the sound almost exactly like the one he made when all of this trouble fucking began and—He comes, panting, slumping as if his joints have evaporated and he drools on your stomach which is a  _little_ gross but also very hot and—  
  
He looks up at you, and for a few blissful moments his eyes are glazed and his lips are red and wet and he looks absolutely  _ravished_ but then awareness comes to him and you both haul yourselves up and  
  
He's angry and he's sunken and he's miserable and he seems  _lost_ and you almost want to take him in your hands, to hold him as he battles the repression out, but the moment ends, and the threat comes and you flinch as if struck and you stay in the room with your cock limp and wet and ravaged and you think that  
  
The reality was  _so_ much better than any of your fantasies.   
  
You wonder if this was a dream, or some spiteful little thing to get back at his dad and you don't think you will  _ever_ know, not until you and he are in class, when he sits right next to you and nervously outstretches his arm, presses his thigh against yours, and reaches for your pinky like a needy little child and—  
  
And here and now, finger to finger, thigh to thigh, smile on both of your faces, you wonder if you and your bully are a  _thing._  
  
The answer? Yes. Yes, you are.   
  
Because before the month is even out, here you find yourself—Splayed on your bed with your sister and parents gone because they're at school and work and you're not, _singularly_ for this and—  
  
You sit, laid on your bed like a king, as fucking Adam Groff sits, knees against your sides and calves and feet at your thighs, sits and then raises himself so that his cock is jutting into the air like the fucking Spear of the Lord, lube covered fingers dipping into the puckered hole between his legs, first one finger, and almost immediately a second, and you know that it _burns_ but then you think that the kinky bastard probably _likes_ that and—Despite the show being put on for you, all for you, cock bobbing with his thrusts and his fingers dipping and out of himself, you watch his face more than anything—His stupid high cheekbones dusted rosy and ruddy, eyes wet and scrunched up in pleasure, pink mouth open and panting hot, chest hitching with his sharp breaths, with his open pleasure—  
  
He fingers himself, and then he shoves a third finger up him and he must have a _lot_ of practice to do it so quick, so easily—And then he takes a long considering look at you and you are struck with sudden worry and then he  _stops_ , even as he grinds his teeth and swallows thickly at the sheer task of it, and you can almost  _sense_ what he wants before he does it, and when he reaches for your hand you're already stretching it out, and he squirts the green little lube bottle onto your fingers and he shoves _two_ of them in him right off the bat and you make a filthy little gasp because he is so  _dirty,_ so  _eager,_ rocks and makes little whimpering moans and fucks himself down on your fingers before you even begin to move, and then you actually  _do_ , thrusting inside, up and down and scissoring and he's got spit on his lips and he's absolutely  _crimson,_ red blush coming down to stain even his fucking shoulders, and he's got a hand on your hip and a hand at your chest and he's making these little rushing words, things like, " _Don't you dare stop or you're fucking dead.'_ " And " _Fuck me fuck me fuck me fuck me."_ And you think this  _must_ be faked,  _must_ be copied off the fucking pornos up until the moment you crook your fingers somewhere sweet and he makes this  _tremendously_ loud moan and blows his loud there and then, coating his belly in his come and getting bits of it on your poor arm and stomach.   
  
Your fingers stop.   
  
His eyes  _shoot_ open and he looks at you with so much smoldering hate and he tells you, " _I didn't tell you to stop, dickhead."_ And obediently you go back to fingering him.   
  
You've been rock fucking  _hard_ this entire time. And he quickly begins to stiffen all over again—He's got a refractory period to  _die_ for and he's back to rutting and fucking down on you in no time and you think of putting a third finger in and when you probe your ring finger at his hole he shakes his head, makes a deep heavy  _sigh,_ and pulls you out.   
  
Your hand moves up, to splay at his sticky stomach, at his rock solid abs, and with a hand he takes your poor neglected cock up and you sputter, uselessly, "Condom—" And then he looks at you like you're just a tremendously annoying insect and spits out,   
  
"I'm clean, you're clean, and I don't  _care—"_   And that, Mister, is  _ **not** safe sex practice_—  
  
But he brings your cock up, presses the head of it against his hole, and then begins to sink down and any and all thoughts have been absolutely  _flung_ out of your head, replaced with a brilliant and all encompassing  _nothingness._ Static plays in your head, and, as if you're outside of your body, you watch him slowly pierce himself with your cock, sinking down and down until he's got you down to the hilt and holy fuck he is a  _champ_ and this is clearly a  _lot_ for him as well as his body dips down until he's mouthing, uselessly, at your chest, and you can't  _see_ your cock in him, but you can  _feel_ it, and he is tight and he is wet and he's clenching and unclenching around you—  
  
He's panting and saying nonsense into your chest and you understand, here, now, blissed out of your mind and with your  _cock finally up someone's, no, Adam's arse—_ That you might have to take it from here. But then he surprises you, as he makes this small little shaky gasp and presses a hand against the bed and another against your arm and pushes himself up, and down, in a slow pace that gives you and him some delicious friction—  
  
" _Oh fuck._ " He says in this small, lost, airy voice, and it hits you  _straight_ in the coiling pool of warmth in your gut, and he is  _fucking_ himself on you, jerking his hips and clenches his fit strong thighs, cock bobbing and abs shifting and moving and he aimlessly nibbles at your chest, just to  _do_ something with his mouth, but he's going a little too slow, is a little too overwhelmed—You can tell from the shaking in his shoulders, from the shininess of the eyes you can barely see, at the sluggishness and lingering of his movements, and so your hands drift to grip at his shapely arse and you thrust  _up_ and he seems to  _die_ on your chest, makes this sputtering noise and then seems not to breath at all and then his face raises and oh _shit_ did you do something wrong—  
  
But instead lips and teeth smack against your own, in a messy ugly kiss that gets spit everywhere and has their teeth smack together, as he fucks down and you fuck up, fucking into him as he moans and whimpers against your lips, seems to melt into something driven and ruled and damned by sex, seems so entirely lost and needy, a hand gripping you by your hips, another sprawled and holding your shoulder for support and he stops being able to kiss entirely, just seems _consumed_ and you drive your thrusts into him, hear him groan and moan whenever you hit the  _best_ spot inside of him, and you watch him succumb and be destroyed and go limp when there's suddenly more sticky wetness at your belly, from where his cock was trapped between the two of you, and you're not done  _yet_ and you continue to fuck into him, see him bury a flushed face into your shoulder and make needy little whimpering noises as you milk his orgasm out, and just when he's done riding the crest of his high do you finally come, spilling hot and totally into him, as your eyes roll back and you go limp and you think the bastard deliberately clenched around you, pressed a hand against your balls, to make it all the sweeter—  
  
And as you two are a mess, as he's panting and trying to come back to this plane of existence, you pull him up and change your angle so you can press hot, sharp kisses and bites to his neck, to his chest, and he's so  _flustered_ by that, you know, finds it so hot and so gross and romantic and eventually he fits a knee between your groin, wraps arms around your back, and you flip to your sides with the two of you belly to belly, his head tucked into your neck, breath warm and cute and still quick against your skin, as you pet his hair and rub at the muscles of his back and watch him sink into you, embarrassed and flustered and utterly  _loving_ the pampering, as you know he always does.   
  
You bet if the you of months ago thought that he would have popped his cherry to his stupid homophobe bully Adam, he would have smacked you silly and then asked for front row seats.   
  
You can almost imagine his spirit, sprawled on your desk, popcorn in hand and cock throbbing in his jeans and want bright in his eyes. Yeah, _git_ , this is _yours_ , not _his_.


End file.
